Crystal Balls (19 page)

Well, that’s not so bad. I thought for a minute she was going to sign a life-long contract to the Mormons or join some religious cult like the Mooneys.

“Yeah, my gran mentioned it the other day, said I might find it fulfilling and all that.”

“And I’m sure you will.” Relieved, I am resting my head against the warm glass, stretching out my legs to even out the weight on both feet when Chantelle bolts up, jumping in
front of me, blocking the sun completely with her size-eight frame.

You’re blocking the sun!

“Why don’t you come with me?” she cries. “The two of us will have a blast, Tina!” She grabs my hands, shaking my arms up and down like I’m a puppet incapable
of moving on my own. “Animals aren’t really my thing, Chantelle.” I try to hide the panic in my voice.
Neither are kids for that matter.
And besides, I have my Saturday
nicely planned. Pampering, more pampering and sex, sex, sex!

“Mine neither but think of the kids, Tina. We’ll be doing it for them.” She looks down on me with those brown puppy-dog eyes, gentle but deceivingly disobedient. “Imagine
their little faces. This might be their only day out all year, poor kids!” She looks as though she’s about to cry.
God, she’s wasted.

Suddenly, flashes of those heartrending TV commercials flood my mind. The ones where they show you orphaned and emaciated kids with filthy flies landing on them and yet they still manage to
smile graciously. It puts me to shame. I always mean to call the number and make a donation. But then it goes out of my head.

“Come on, Tina. We’ll have a ball.”

“I’m not that great with kids.” I wince. It’s true. I’ve never been around them.

“You only need to supervise them, Tina. They’ll be so distracted with their annual day out they won’t notice how you’re being.”

“I guess.”

I mean, what harm can it do? It’s just a few hours for heaven’s sake with farm animals and a few small kids. A doddle, in fact.

“Okay, you’re on, Mrs,” I declare jovially. “It’s a date.”

I feel good about the decision. It really is the right thing to do and, besides, won’t Mr Steen be impressed when he asks about my weekend so far?
Oh, you know, the usual stuff, Brian,
charity work, blah blah.
I just need to make sure I get back early so that I can get ready without a mad rush, although thanks to my harsh waxing the other weekend I’m still in pretty
good shape. In fact, you know what? I’m quite looking forward to Saturday now. Cute little animals and the warming sound of children’s laughter. A little TLC, that’s all they
need
.

Poor things. Auntie Tina’s here.

My legs wobble as I clutch the loose handrail, trying to stop myself from falling down the stairs head first. From the virtual-web-images the property looked to be in much
better condition than it is in reality, and the list of potential, not to mention, costly jobs is getting longer by the minute. The stairway itself is a liability. Every stair is uneven. The
handrail is practically hanging off and the carpet is so threadbare it might as well be renamed underlay. Relieved as my feet touch the ground, I look back up to the top of the stairs, wondering if
it would be safe to bring Brian or one of his guys with me next time, assuming I get out of here alive. Perhaps I might suggest some steel-capped boots and hard hats just in case.
Now
we’re talking!

Downstairs looks to be in better condition which is unusual given this is where the hive of activity would have been. The building, previously an ice-cream parlour, is currently sitting in
vacant possession and evidences very little of its former life apart from a tantalising sweetness which I pray will never leave. It is much larger than our existing High Street branch but then
again most of the units here in Camberwell Road are double-fronted which is one of the primary reasons for choosing this location. Not to mention the other two other estate agents who are extremely
well established in this area. Most of us these days are so shrewd when it comes to parting with our cash, that I think it’s safe to say that the punters are likely to shop around all of us
before deciding which one is going to sell their home. And Harding Home’s strike rate is over eighty per cent, mainly down to Chantelle given I spend so much time out of the office these
days. If or when the next shop is opened, I intend to transfer Chantelle up here where she can manage this plus the staff, leaving me to manage the High Street branch. My baby. I’ll need to
recruit someone else to take on the valuations for us. I’d much prefer to spend time working in the business than going out price-tagging.

The openness of the ground floor is vast and, better still, there are two small office rooms which could be used as interview rooms.
Fantastic!
So far we’ve been referring our
mortgage business to a neighbouring Independent Financial Advisor for a small kickback in commission, but for the new office I’ll most definitely be looking to recruit a qualified mortgage
advisor who will be office-based. Paid no salary but then again charged no rent. They can’t lose either way and neither can we. The majority of clients who come through our doors need some
form of borrowing and if we can’t service their requirements then somebody else will. Missing out on such a moneymaking opportunity would simply be foolish. A one-stop shop. That’s what
this office is going to be all about. A moneymaking empire.

“Mark will be with you in just a few minutes now, Tina,” she says politely. “Can I get you a coffee while you’re waiting?”

I put down the magazine, bored of reading the
Weight Loss for Wimps
column, nodding gratefully. “Thanks, Jo, white no sugar, please.”

I originally had my hair booked in for Saturday but had to bring it forward on account of the agenda change. It’s not an issue though as Mark pulls it so straight that I could leave it for
a week and it still wouldn’t look any different. Not that I’d do that, of course. It’s so time-consuming, straightening my own hair. Firstly blowing it as straight as I can get
it, secondly taking the irons through it piece by piece and, lastly, wondering where on earth the last three hours went to, that I gladly hand over twenty quid each week now just to spare myself
the pain.

“Hello, gorgeous!” Mark chirps at me excitedly as he removes the wet towel, roughly drying my hair and kissing the air noisily. “You look faaab! Dish the dirt then,
darling!”

Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror I cringe. My hair has started to frizz already and splashes of black mascara garnish my cheeks.
Gorgeous! Is he blind or what?

“Nothing to tell,” I shrug. “Although ask me next week and there might well be.” A dirty laugh escapes, followed by a squeal of delight from Mark as he clasps his hands
together.

“Well, remember me when you’re married off to this rich tycoon, won’t you?” He empties his pockets, pulling out the lining, and purses his bottom lip, looking truly
pathetic. “The lowly skint hairdresser you once confided in.”

“Mark, if I ever had enough money you know I’d hire you to be my personal stylist. I wouldn’t hesitate.”
I’m deadly serious.
“You’d have to come
on holiday with me though, maybe to the Maldives or the Caribbean so it wouldn’t be too cushy a number! And let’s face it, you’d pose no threat to my future husband so I
can’t see him objecting.”

He squeezes the melon-scented serum from its container and smooths it through my hair right down to the very tips.

“Don’t be sooo cheeky, Miss Thing!” he snorts effeminately. “A man like me could turn the even straightest of men gay!
You
might be the one who needs to look
out!”

I guess I never thought of it that way before, although it’s a chance I’d be prepared to take. Having a blonde Swedish au-pair however, isn’t.
What am I talking about? I
haven’t even got a boyfriend and I’m talking husband, kids and nanny!
Usually I confide in Mark over everything, but the utter embarrassment of the Simon issue is simply too much.
Although he’d love it. Vomiting on a white rug has some degree of humour to it, assuming you’re not the owner of the rug or the vomittee of course, but exposing your body in agent
provocateur lingerie to the wrong man, I simply can’t see the funny side of that personally.

“What are we doing today, my lovely?” Mark asks, standing back, assessing his options. “I’m thinking Farah Fawcett?”

“I was just thinking poker-straight actually, Mark.”

He looks disappointed.

“My date isn’t until tomorrow and I doubt those flicks would survive overnight!” I laugh.

“Have it your way then.” He sighs. Ever the Drama Queen. “Straight it is.” He pouts sulkily. “And boring.”

Prima donna!

The Sunshine Coach pulls up outside of Noah’s Animal Farm. Chantelle and I watch eagerly, standing by ready to assist.

A dozen young faces pressed up against the glass grin excitedly and the vehicle gasps loudly to a complete standstill.

As the children frantically collect their belongings, desperate to disembark, the bus rocks from side to side with the commotion. The doors open with a loud hiss and one by one each child is
assisted and lowered to safety.

Chantelle and I exchange grins at the sound of the children’s voices, excitable and giddy. Tittering girls and boisterous boys huddle together as they’re rounded up like cattle.

A stern-faced, robust woman marches towards us, holding out her right hand. “Hello, ladies, I’m Pat Donnelly. Chairperson of the Church for Children group.” We exchange formal
handshakes. “Jolly delighted to meet you,” she announces confidently.

Actually, speaking with a mouth full of marbles would be a more accurate description. There aren’t many of her type left in Liverpool. She must be from old stock.

“I hope you know you’ve your work cut out today, ladies?” She raises an eyebrow, gesturing towards the group of children who are now lined up two by two, holding hands and
looking particularly angelic.
How cute are they!

“We’ve come prepared!” I reply cheerfully, lifting my leg to demonstrate my commitment to practicality and showing her my rather clean-looking Caterpillar boots. Chantelle
follows suit, pointing to her pink wellies. She looks suitably unimpressed but we both ignore her sternness and continue to smile broadly at the children.

Nothing can dampen my exhilaration today. I’m so desperate to get stuck in and I just can’t wait to hold their chubby little hands and watch their innocent faces as they experience a
little farm life and benefit from a dose of good clean air. I want to experience that maternal bond everyone talks about and imagine for just one moment that I have my own children. I yearn to feel
that sense of a love that’s so strong and so unbreakable that it takes my breath away and sends my heart into emotional overload.

“It’s going to take a little more than footwear to protect yourselves from some of these little monkeys,” Pat replies coolly, winking at me in particular. “They bite, you
know.”

My face drops momentarily and then I realise she’s joking. I laugh, relieved. Although I notice she doesn’t.

“Tina,” she takes my arm, “let me introduce you to Charlie and Jake. You’ll be looking after these two boys today.”

Excitedly, I follow her lead towards the group of children, waving as they wave back at me, and suddenly I am overcome with the pleasure of guarding someone else’s child. It has to be one
of the highest privileges.

Walking down the line, I become aware that my face is fixed in a joker-like grin. But it feels as good as it does natural. I make a point of saying hello to each and every child and momentarily
feel like a member of the Royal Family at the end of a Royal Variety Show. I decide to omit the small talk. Stopping dead, Pat roughly taps the shoulders of two small boys about six years old,
standing tall and intimidating them. I immediately stoop down to their level to introduce myself properly, conscious not to do the same as she does. I watched it on
Supernanny.
She says to
always come down to the child’s eye level and that way you won’t be bullying them by looming over them.

“Hello, Charlie. Hello, Jake, I’m Tina,” I say affectionately, keen to strike an instant rapport with my two boys. I stretch my arm past Charlie towards Jake and ruffle his
hair in a playful gesture. “
Aaaahh!” A
piercing scream escapes from my lips in a pained knee-jerk response.

“Charlie – no,” Pat says calmly. “Let go right now.”

“
Aaaah!
Get him off me!” I screech as his teeth sink deeper into my arm.

Charlie releases his grip and I pull away in a state of shock. A perfect cast of milk teeth stares up at me and I watch in horror as the blood surfaces and my arm begins to throb. Really
throb.

Pat coolly whips out an antiseptic wipe from her bulging canvas bag and roughly scrubs my arm before speed-wrapping a small bandage around the wounded area and taping it down with a large
plaster.

“There now – all sorted,” she dismisses the incident as I continue to gape at the two boys in horror. “I did warn you, Tina.” She smirks knowingly. “I told
you they bite.”

Yes but . . .

Marching the group through the main entrance like a captain leading his troops into battle, she turns every now and then to check we’re all in tow. Chantelle, a few rows up, casts me a
apologetic glance as I hold my arm up to her, showing the damage done. She winces sympathetically.

Feeling wounded, although more emotionally than physically, I watch as the other assistants take the hands of their perfectly behaved children and wonder for a split second if I should try to do
the same.
Think like an adult, Tina. They’re only children.
I tell myself that they’re only little and perhaps I scared them off by making physical contact too soon?

I quickly decide to write off the biting incident as an isolated case although I am definitely in favour of adopting a more cautious approach.

“Jake, Charlie, would you like to hold my hand?” I ask with firm authority. The boys nod at me obediently, lifting up their little arms to show me grubby hands with dirty
fingernails. I take hold of each small hand gently and with relief at their apparent eagerness. Thankful for their apparent change in temperament.
Wasn’t a good start for any of us but
still there’s plenty of time for a happy ending.